Liberation
by HeidiBug731
Summary: The moment Lucius Malfoy steps out of Azkaban prison, all of his happy memories come rushing back to him. The thing is, they aren't what he had expected them to be. Written post HBP.


I was on a forum and someone had asked the question of whether or not Narcissa truly loved her son, whether she and Lucius actually loved each other, and whether Draco actually loved his parents. I was sure that the Malfoys love each other not unlike how the Weasleys love each other, as evidenced by Narcissa's desperate plea to Severus at the beginning of HBP and Draco's worry for his "family" at the end of HBP. I was sure that their love for one another was repressed so that neither we nor even they got to see it, but it was there nonetheless. And I wanted to write a story that showed that. I wanted to write a story that show the average day of a Malfoy; accumulating wealth, sucking up to whoever was more powerful, squashing those who were below them . . . but I also wanted to write what we don't normally see, just small hints here and there of their love for one another.

It didn't turn out that way. The following just kind of flowed from my fingertips and although it isn't what I had wanted, I like it too much to throw it away. I think you can still get the gist of what I was trying to do, though. Maybe someday, I'll give what I had originally wanted to do another shot.

Keep in mind that I'm not trying to suggest that the Malfoys are "good" or that they will go help the Order or anything like that. They will always be "evil," they will always hate muggles and muggle borns. All I'm trying to suggest is that they love each other underneath it all. I truly think Lucius cares about his wife and I truly think they care about Draco and I truly think he cares about them as well.

* * *

_Liberation_

The god-forsaken sun was shinning down on his face without a single bloody cloud in the sky to block it out. The air was painfully crisp and cool and carried that revolting morning fresh smell. The stupid birds were singing their annoying songs.

But he _loved_ it.

After _years_ of not being able to _feel_ anything, of not being able to _think_ of anything but the deep dark depths of depression, after nearly going _insane_ . . . even the most aggravating sound, smell, or sight was absolutely wonderful.

Finally out of Azkaban, it all came flooding back. With each breath he took, every memory, every happy thought and feeling rushed through him. It had been so _long _since he'd felt anything like this. Even before Azkaban, if he had felt happiness, he'd held it in until he'd shut himself off from his emotions completely. How had he been able to do that? _Why_ had he wanted to do that when this felt so good?

For so long, he'd lived with nothing, not a single hint of any kind of human feeling and then he had been thrown into that dark oppressive pit where he'd nearly lost his mind from the misery. And now, to step outside and actually _feel_ for the first time in _years_ . . . all the joyous memories that he had shut himself off from and had forgotten about and then had had taken away from him came back and hit him with such force that he couldn't breathe.

He gasped, fighting to bring air into his lungs.

He felt a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Darling, are you alright?"

The voice was cold, like ice. Didn't she care? Didn't it frighten her that he was suffocating right in front of her? Of course, she cared. He'd heard it in her voice. It was subtle but he'd heard it. It was his fault that she was afraid to show it completely.

He shook his head, clutching his chest. Dear, god, he couldn't _breathe_. All the while the memories kept coming at him. He fell to his knees, fisting a hand in the hard soil of the dirt road they were walking. _Air_, he needed _air_.

"Father?"

Another voice, his son's, just as cold and icy as his wife's. But there was concern there, concern that a stranger wouldn't have heard.

_Memories_, even more memories, memories of happiness, memories of joy, and memories of complete euphoria. They were the happiest moments of his life, but they weren't about what he'd thought his happiest moments were. They weren't about money or success or the fruits of ambition. The irony of it was that these moments, his happiest, were the ones he'd made before he'd attacked the status ladder, these were the moments that he'd cut himself off from, moments he had forgotten he'd had until right now.

Irony, cold, ruthless irony, he had always loved it, and he loved it now even with the tables turned against him.

He laughed, hard and long, laughed as he hadn't laughed in years, great hardy laughs that filled the air and forced air into his lungs so fast and _cold _that it hurt. He laughed until he cried. There he was, Lucius Malfoy, sitting in the _dirt_ no less and sobbing and laughing into his hands while his wife and son watched helplessly.

"He's gone mad."

Draco's voice, still cold and uncaring. But no, he _did_ care. He'd caught the fear in his son's voice.

Lucius shook his head, still laughing and sobbing so hard that he was unable to speak. No, he wasn't mad. He'd _been_ mad, he knew what mad was like, and this wasn't it. This was freedom, the most liberating moment of his life.

Draco just stood there, staring at his father. He was sitting in the _dirt_ for Merlin's sake. Malfoys do _not _sit in the dirt. That had been one of the first lessons he'd learned as a child: Malfoys do _not_ play in the dirt. Never mind the fact that he was _three_ and making mud pies like every other normal child. Malfoys walk on dirt. Dirt is below the Malfoys, along with anything or anyone considered low enough to _be_ dirt.

His father was laughing as well. It was a sound Draco had never heard before from his father. He usually heard a cold sneering laugh, but this actually sounded . . . happy. Malfoys do _not_ express happiness. He'd never heard that rule, but it had somehow made its way onto the list. Malfoys were supposed to be _pleased_ or _proud_. Yes, pride was a big one. He was supposed to be pleased his father was on the Minister's good side, and his father was supposed to be proud of how his son was doing in school. And all Malfoys were supposed to be proud of their pureblood heritage.

But Malfoys are never _happy_. The sound of joyous laughter had never been heard at Malfoy Manor. At least, Draco had never heard such a thing.

And _crying_. Malfoys do _not_ cry. He'd learned that one fast as well.

But his father seemed to be breaking all the rules and Draco wondered if his stay in Azkaban had unhinged him. What were they going to do with him? Lock him up in the attic and pretend he didn't exist?

For a moment, something inside Draco called out against it. This was his _father!_ He and his mother had lived so long without him, and that had been hard enough. It wasn't fair now that when they finally got him back . . . But then, Malfoys do _not_ think such thoughts. Malfoys do _not_ act like mad men. And if a family member breaks the rules . . . they are no longer considered family.

Draco wouldn't even look at his mother. He was afraid of what he might see in her eyes. He just stared at his father, wondering what would happen next.

When the laughter passed, Lucius Malfoy simply sat there on his knees with his eyes closed, trembling from the experience and taking in slow calming breaths.

Narcissa knelt down in front of her husband, unsure of what was going on. She was careful not to touch the dirt. Sitting on her ankles, she took his hands. Well, no, she took his wrists because there was _dirt_ on his hands. "Darling? It's time to go. Come along."

Draco knew that tone of voice. It was the one she used when he was misbehaving and she wanted him to leave with her before he caused even more embarrassment to the Malfoy name.

Lucius felt his wife pull him to his feet. He could remember the happiness he'd felt when they'd shared their first kiss. He remembered the joy of the day he'd married her. He'd repressed those feelings at the time, seeming upright and proper, upholding the Malfoy name. But on the inside, on the inside . . . he'd been dancing.

He opened his eyes and looked at the woman in front of him. God, she was beautiful. He'd never told her that, had he? No, he had told her . . . a long, long time ago. That wasn't right. He shouldn't have stopped telling her. He wondered if she even knew that he loved her.

He kissed her.

Draco felt his eyes widen to the size of Quffles. Malfoys do _not_ display _any_ form of public affection, _ever_. If holding hands was out of the question, then a passionate kiss was _definitely_ out.

He heard his mother's muffled cry of surprise. She tried to push away from his father, but he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. Eventually, she relaxed and her hands began playing with the hair at the base of his neck and she actually kissed him back! It wasn't the least bit discreet, but, no matter how much he wanted to, Draco couldn't turn his eyes away. He would've gagged had he not been shocked to the point that his brain wouldn't register how gross it was to watch his parents _make out_.

Malfoys do _not_ engage in snogging sessions in public. In fact, Draco was sure the rule went more along the lines of "Malfoys do _not_ engage in snogging sessions, period." His own _parents_ were breaking the rules _right in front of him_. As a child, he would fantasize that his parents broke the rules when he wasn't looking. As he'd grown up, he came to realize that they actually believed in the rules and followed them strictly. This . . . _this_ was just . . . _bizarre._

Narcissa didn't know what was going on with her husband, but she liked it (not that Malfoys were _supposed_ to like this kind of distasteful thing). She didn't even care about the dirt he was undoubtedly getting on her clothing. He hadn't kissed her like this since . . . since . . . she couldn't even remember. She imagined it was around the time Draco was born. He'd just stopped showing any sign of affection toward her after that. Money and success had become more important to him then, probably because he thought it was his duty to give those things to them.

Lucius was lost. It had been too long, _way_ too long, since he'd kissed her like this. God, when was the last time he'd actually made love to her? For them sex had become . . . _mechanical_, just something they did because they thought they had to do it. And even then, they just did it as quickly as they could so it'd be done and over with.

He was going to have to fix that.

They finally parted and Narcissa was caught up in a fit of giggles that she tried to repress. Malfoys do _not_ giggle. But Lucius didn't seem to care, so she let it out.

That was another thing it had been too long since he'd seen. Narcissa always had this look on her face like there was a rotten smell under her nose . . . no, not always. She hadn't always been like that. It was a look she would adopt whenever there was something going on that she found unpleasant or displeasing. It used to make him laugh. That look had become fixed to her face over the years, and he hadn't even noticed its significance. She'd been unhappy and he hadn't noticed.

But she was happy now. He saw the laughter dancing in her eyes, and her nose was unwrinkled for the first time in . . . forever.

Lucius turned toward his son. Draco's birth and the day he'd discovered that Narcissa was pregnant with Draco were two of his happiest memories, second only to marrying his wife.

Draco would have ran for the hills had he not been frozen to the spot from shock. What was wrong with his family? Was he the only one with any sense? Was he the only one with any Malfoy pride? Was he the only one who realized how many _rules_ had just been broken? Was he-?

And then his father pulled him toward him and . . . and hugged him.

Draco just stood there, stiff as a board. He had never felt anything like this. He had never been the victim of a warm embrace and it . . . it actually wasn't that bad. Slowly, very slowly, he brought his arms up around his father, returning an act that he wasn't entirely sure he understood but definitely wanted to get the hang of eventually.

His father released him, and then took Draco's wrist and pushed up his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark on his forearm. Draco waited silently, waiting for praise or disappointment.

Disappointment was what he heard in his father's voice, but it wasn't toward Draco. It was toward his father, himself. "This isn't what I wanted for you," he said solemnly. He sighed, pulling his son's sleeve back down. "There's going to be a few changes when we get home."

Draco nodded silently, unsure of what that meant.

Lucius stood. He put an arm around his wife's waist and then a hand on Draco's shoulder. It wasn't an unfamiliar gesture, but it was a little awkward since he wasn't used to doing it. He'd just have to get back in the habit.

It was another touch Draco had never felt before. His father usually put a hand on his shoulder as a warning that he was going too far and on the verge of breaking a rule. On occasion, it was a touch to express how proud his father was of him, but that was usually when his father was telling someone else _other_ than Draco how proud he was. This touch was different, however. It was warm and . . . and loving.

Draco had hated change, hated that his father had been captured and put in Azkaban, hated that their name was placed in doubt, hated the he, himself, had acquired the Dark Mark, hated that his mother had to worry. But now, with the Dark Lord vanquished and his father out of Azkaban and this new _thing_, whatever it was, that had gotten into his father, he decided that perhaps . . .

. . . change was good.


End file.
